


It's Fine

by bethepuck



Category: Bad Education (UK TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cussing, Explicit Language, Fist Fights, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Touching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:03:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5586661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethepuck/pseuds/bethepuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order to fill a core athletic requirement, Mitchell is put on the hurdles team where he comes to the acquaintance of Frank Grayson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Medecine

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is my first Bad Education Fic, it's going to be multiple chapters, sorry if the summary is vague, I haven't exactly figured out the ending yet. I really like this pairing even though it's unusual, I just think they're perfect for each other. Heads up: there's going to be a lot of explicit stuff throughout this fic, and the language is very crude and vulgar, so there's that. I hope you all enjoy!

Somewhere along the lines, Mitchell had overlooked the athletic requirement stating that every pupil must complete one term’s worth of a school sport. It seemed like some kind of joke when Pickwell summoned him to her jail cell of an office on such an occasion. Any other time, it would have been a chance to reprimand him for using the janitor’s closet as an exclusive area to stash porn or attempting to use the acrylics to get high; but, today was quite different.

“Mr. Harper,” Pickwell begins, her voice sounding like hell flames personified, “It appears that you have yet to fulfill your athletic requirement. How do you intend to do so?”

Mitchell can only stare at her God-awful plum lipstick. He slouches in his seat, not really listening.

“Mr. Harper,” the sea dragon snaps.

“What?” Mitchell glances up with a bored expression plastered on his face, not in the least bit interested in a wink of the dialogue coming out of her face hole.

“The sports requirement,” she pushes the words through her teeth, face beastly and grotesque with steamy impatience.

“Oi, I played ‘n a football game last month, so what’s the big deal?” Mitchell replies easily, eyes widening a bit for emphasis.

“That was one match, not a full athletic season. So what will it be?” Pickwell grins.

“Shot put,” Mitchell says cheekily, “I’m good a’ throwin’ shit.”

“We don’t _have_ a shot put team, pick another,” Pickwell rolls her eyes indignantly.

“Water polo,” Mitchell grins out of the corner of his teeth.

“Very funny. I’ll choose for you, since you appear incapable of even _that_ ,” the witch flicks her eyes down to a few leafs of paper on her desk, shuffling through them intently.

Mitchell looks about the room at the plain turquoise-gray walls, eyes glazed over, bored out of his wits. He was searching for an argument or an excuse to make a few inappropriate comments, something more entertaining than biology class, but it appears Pickwell is not up for the challenge today.

“It looks like two members of one of the track and field teams have quit. Congratulations, Mitchell, on making the hurdles team,” Pickwell looks up with a sneer.

Mitchell isn’t too fazed by the idea of hurdling, how hard can it be to jump over things? He’s hopped fences more times than he can count, and it’s only a few months of it until the term is over. It’s not like he’s going to participate in any actual events. As he stands to leave, with the instructions that there is a practice today after classes, the question as to _why_ the other two kids quit gnaws at his subconscious, but only for a little while, because nothing really bothers him for too long.

 

*                                                                      *                                                          *

 

Mitchell makes the not-so-difficult decision to skip the rest of biology and light matches behind the maths building instead. He crouches to the ground, striking the match, flicking it to the asphalt, and watching I burn up until it fizzles and dies. Every now and then, the flame catches something that isn’t gravel, various pieces of trash or one of the many crushed, half-smoked cigarettes that litter the ground, quenching it with the heel of his shoe.

The afternoon passes slowly, even when Alfie puts Rush Hour on as a substitute to teaching about Chinese involvement in the Opium Wars. Mitchell just puts his head down and waits for the final bell to ring so he can go to the men’s lockers and see what this hurdle business is all about, not in the mood to watch yet another Jackie Chan film where he basically does the same move every time in the same exact situation. Alfie is asleep at his desk.

As soon as class is dismissed, Mitchell stands and gathers his bag. He doesn’t see any reason to stop by his locker, doesn’t feel like doing any homework tonight anyway. Rem Dogg wheels down the hallway by Mitchell’s side, passing other kids who are, most likely, fortunate enough to have already filled their sports requirements, packing up their bags and going out with friends to the cinema or to the pub with their fakes. Rem stops at his own locker and frowns when Mitchell continues walking.

“Oi, where you rushin’ off to, ya wanker? Got someplace to be, ‘ave you?” Rem calls after Mitchell.

“Ya, your mom’s bedroom,” Mitchell calls back, grinning, making his way through the crowds to the practically vacant part of the school where sports’ practices have commenced. It’s a nice enough day outside, not too brisk, not too sunny, and Mitchell realizes he lacks a t-shirt and shorts to practice in. He contemplates whether or not he should just wear his uniform instead, immediately deciding against looking like a twat on the first day, glancing around the room to see if anyone is looking at him, scanning for an unattended gym bag to sift through. He doesn’t recognize any of the other guys, or at least doesn’t know the names to attach to their faces, and they don’t seem bothered enough to give him two looks, going about their own business of changing. Mitchell spots a bag sitting on the bench to his left and doesn’t hesitate to rummage through it, pulling out a pair of white shorts and a shirt to go with. Quickly, to avoid questioning, he tugs off his blue oxford, ignoring the buttons, slipping off his tie with it, tugging the t-shirt over his head, ears getting caught on the collar temporarily. If the shirt is a little tight, well, almost everywhere, Mitchell couldn’t care less, and if the shorts possessed a little more space in the seat to maximize comfort, he would have been quite pleased, but shorts are shorts and shirts are shirts and Mitchell slips out of the dressing room into the fresh air before anyone can pick apart his apparel selection.

Barely anyone is on the field yet, a few scattered members sitting on the bleachers chatting with a couple of the hardos stretching and jogging warm up laps. In the grassy center area, the football first team passes in a zig-zag pattern and at the far end of the shared area, a cluster of co-ed members appear to participate in a sport that resembles shot put very closely.

“Cunt lied straight to my face,” Mitchell squints in the sunlight.

There are many other places that Mitchell would rather be than standing on the field right now. He didn’t think that they even _had_ a hurdles team. Far off to the left, a few students practice pole vaulting. Narrowing his eyes across the distance, he grins, making out the small frame of one of his classmates, Jing, preparing for a vault.

Ecstatic that he finally sees someone he recognizes, he shouts out to her, “Ay, Jing! I didn’t know you’re good with a pole!” he makes a jerking off motion in response to her disgusted expression.

A few more members of the hurdles team have emerged onto the field and Mitchell wonders if he can just skip out on practice for today and run home before the football match is over at 4:30. By the time Fraser, the coach, surprisingly, finds his way to the track, about everyone, Mitchell assumes, is present. He has no close friends on the team and immediately mulls over the idea of asking Rem Dogg to join with him. Pickwell _did_ say that _two_ kids quit, meaning there is still one more spot left. Then again, Rem Dogg can’t really use his legs…

Fraser is babbling on about hurdle safety, holding a clipboard that most likely isn’t necessary. He’s making vague hand gestures now. Mitchell stares at the gesticulations blankly, mind blocking out the noise. In the backdrop, Jing is preparing once more to vault, shaking her head as Mitchell makes the jerking off motion again. The football team is splitting up into two different colored pinnies and the shot put team has begun to fling stuff about . An atmosphere of peaceful silence is broken like a pond’s surface when the door to the boy’s changing room is kicked open. The hurdlers turn to face the noise, where, quite grandly, none other than Frank Grayson, stalks forth.

“Which one a’ you wankstains copped my threads?” Grayson’s face is furious, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, expression set.

The group stares wordlessly. A few of the weaker ones take nervous steps back.

“I know one a’ ya took ‘em, ‘cus I was only gone for a second,” Grayson approaches dangerously close and Mitchell shifts his gaze away.

He wonders whether the better option would be confessing and getting beat senseless or ignoring the accusations and _maybe_ getting out with all his organs still inside his body.

Fraser addresses the team with a sense of authority, “Alright, champs, which one of you pranksters nabbed Mr. Grayson’s garments?”

Several people in the back stifle laughs. Mitchell grins.

“Oi, what’s so funny?” Grayson spits out.

He’s so close now.

Mitchell doesn’t want to look up.

He hasn’t really targeted Mitchell specifically, directing his fire at the team as a whole, which is a plus. Mitchell doesn’t even really know if Grayson knows who he is; they’re in different Forms that rarely interact with each other, although they might have art and biology together, but he can’t be sure. Instead of worrying, he takes fascination in examining a dried mud splotch on his right running shoe.

“Will it still be funny when I kick ya teeth in?” Grayson squeezes his right fist but keeps it by his side, unthreatening.

“Mr. Grayson, there’s no shame in doing your daily dosage of cardio in your school clothes. In fact, I believe it was the Spanish who--,” Fraser starts off on a tangent but Grayson is _fuming._

“Shut up, Downton Abbey, I’ve had enough bullshit, I ain’t dancin’ around like a fairy in my uniform,” Grayson approaches a tall, thin boy who looks like he’s about to piss himself or already has. Grayson pokes a finger at him, snarling, “Take it off.”

Fraser goes through roll call, making crude, immature jokes whenever he deems a surname a bit silly, all while the tall boy, William, strips down to his underclothes, lending his t-shirt and shorts to Grayson. Mitchell eyes poor William anxiously, as he turns to get his own school clothes from the dressing room. Grayson is looking rather smug, standing amongst his own buddies, snickering, arms folded challengingly. Mitchell’s heart races. He doesn’t move, eyes locked on the other boy.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s going to slaughter me when he finds out I took his stupid gym clothes. How the fuck was I supposed to know to bring running attire? I just got on this fucking team like four hours ago. He can’t notice me. Just lay low. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t catch his attention. Don’t—_

Mitchell’s skittish inner monologue is interrupted by a “Mitchell Harper. Harper comma Mitchell. Harp(er) the herald angels sing, glory to the new born king. Is there a Mitchell Harper in the hizzouse?” Fraser goes off and from the sound of it, he’s been calling out Mitchell’s name for a good while now, despite the fact that Mitchell’s standing literally right in front of him.

And _that’s_ when Grayson chooses to look over, locking eyes with Mitchell, who’s staring, wide-eyed, mouth gaping. _Fuck_. His mind pauses. What are the chances that he could outrun Grayson? He hasn’t been on the hurdles team more than ten minutes; maybe he’s a natural and can hop the field fence and still make it home to catch the end of the second half of the match. West Ham is having a good run thus far; they’ve come out on top in the most recent handful of derbies. Grayson’s expression is one of dark venom. He’s obviously noticed whose clothes he’s wearing. Fraser is still rambling when Grayson pushes through the bodies.

“Oi, dumbfuck. What’s tha’,” Grayson nods toward Mitchell.

“What? This? They’re my runnin’ clothes. Y’know, for hurdlin’ n’ whatnot,” Mitchell grins dumbly; Grayson’s fists clench and unclench very intimidatingly.

“Well, that’s a dirty lie if I’ve ever ‘eard one innit,” a twisted smirk plays on Grayson’s lips for a brief moment, as if Mitchell blinked, it would have turned into a scowl by the time he reopened his eyes. But, Mitchell knows better to not blink when Frank Grayson is less than a foot away, wearing an expression of murder.

The air is tense and in the background, Mitchell can hear Fraser forcing out another stretched pun, “Mitchell Harpurrr like a kitten.”

Grayson is up in Mitchell’s face now, lip caught between teeth, eyes bearing through his, deep and unforgiving.

“Admit it. You took my stuff,” Grayson seems ten feet tall. Mitchell watches Grayson’s bottom lip slip through his teeth as the words pass through.

“Your mom,” Mitchell replies immaturely, grinning, but not so much when Grayson gives him a hard shove by the shoulders, enough to send him back a few feet.

Mitchell catches his balance enough that when he rebounds, he’s grinning and laughing like an idiot.

“You think that’s funny. What ‘bout this?” Grayson is known for his quick punch release, but surprisingly, Mitchell gets the first hit in, knocking the other boy under the jaw.

“Yeah, I do,” Mitchell snickers. A few others around them laugh nervously, eyes moving back and forth to observe the next coarse of events. Grayson falters a little bit, drawing a few fingers to his lip to test for blood, examining for a short moment before coming forward again and delivering a short, powerful punch to Mitchell’s smirking face. He goes down like a sack of potatoes.

 

Mitchell’s head feels heavy, like someone stuck wet cotton balls in his skull. He sits up, ears ringing, vision doubling before returning to normal. The other students crowd around him like a born-again extinct specimen. His legs feel wobbly and weak when he stands. Fraser finally seemed to have figured things out, an arm wrapped faux-authentically around Grayson’s shoulders, a stupidly ignorant expression staining his face.

Grayson looks pissed.

 

*                                                          *                                                             *

“Just a brotherly quarrel is all, Isobel,” Fraser explains to Pickwell.

Grayson crosses his arms in his chair, looking at the head in a jar on Pickwell’s back shelf, glowering. Mitchell plugs his nose in an attempt to dam the blood from flowing uncontrollably out of his nose. A tissue box sits on the edge of Pickwell’s desk.

“You wouldn’t understand because you’re… well… you’ve got tits,” Fraser says without any grace whatsoever.

“Boys can ‘ave tits too. ‘Ave you seen Joe’s? They’re huge,” Grayson growls under his breath.

The tissues look further out of reach for some reason. Mitchell thinks its because he’s dying, fading fast, the material world growing farther and farther away each second he waits. He makes the bold decision to reach out and grab a bloody handful of tissues, yet the moment he removes one of his hands, the dam leaks and a river of red sneaks out his left nostril, surging forward on a mission to stain the white of Grayson’s shirt.

The other boy takes notice of the atrocity and practically screeches, “Watch it, tosser, it’s polo!” He jolts forward to seize a tissue and plug Mitchell’s nose himself with incredible speed, but not before the blood has permeated the fabric.

“I don’t see no collar. It’s a crew neck. And who’re ya callin’ a tosser, tosser?” Mitchell retorts through the tissues. Grayson is pinching the leakage still, not letting go even though Mitchell has a free hand to take care of his own nose.

Fraser is discussing the concept of “bros before hoes” to Pickwell now. Mitchell glances up at the clock on the wall. Still thirty-five minutes left until practice ends. Even if Mitchell catches the bus right this very second, he still won’t make it home before the final whistle of the West Ham match.

“I’m talkin’ ‘bout the _brand_ polo, ya tea bag. It’s ‘spensive, don’t let it drip,” Grayson snarls, retracting his hand from Mitchell’s face.

Pickwell is observing the two boys with a penetrating scrutiny that only a heartless Scottish woman such as herself could harness.

“Can we ge’ out of ‘ere, Dickwell? Fuck’ead over here just got his period out of his face ‘nd I’ve got places to be,” Grayson stands, dusting off his “borrowed” shorts. Mitchell looks up at him with big eyes.

“Well, if one of those “places” happens to be a youth detention center, you don’t need my permission. Yet, aren’t you too _old_ for a juvenile correction facility? You’re eligible for prison now, correct?” Pickwell grins a sickening sneer.

“Piss off,” Grayson grimaces, “Come on, leaky, I ain’t finished with you,” Grayson grabs Mitchell’s arm and pulls him out of his chair.

Grayson’s grip is too tight, sure to leave marks that will show up tomorrow, as he tugs Mitchell into the hallway.

He’s shaking. No way he can run now; his legs won’t work. He glances over at Grayson who stares straight forward, determined, leading Mitchell all the way to the other side of the school, to the boy’s washroom. The speed they’re moving at is incredible, with so much drive in Grayson’s stride propelling them both forward. To keep up with the fluid drip, Mitchell tips his head back so it will stop running so much, yet as he does so, Grayson manifests himself as a know-it-all, “Don’t tilt ya ‘ead back, idiot, all the blood’ll go down your throat ‘nd into your lungs.” The older boy tugs his hand forward. Mitchell feels like his shoulder might pop out of his socket. _This isn’t the worst way to die,_ Mitchell decides as Grayson kicks open the door to the restroom, _at least I’m not being ripped apart by dogs or drowning in a pot of acid._

Mitchell doesn’t really know any prayers off the top of his head. Grayson’s face is _quite_ displeased. He’s certainly not prepared for anything that Grayson might possibly have to say next, he knows that much. Especially not, “Take your shirt off.”

Mitchell just stands there, one hand holding the tissue to his nose to sop up the blood that continues to flow. The place is silent. All the other students have gone home. Grayson looks at Mitchell expectantly.

“What?” Mitchell gapes.

Grayson rolls his eyes, “Are you ‘ard of hearing? Your shirt? Actually, _my_ shirt. Take ‘t off.”

Mitchell wonders if he missed something or confused Grayson’s punch in the face with another emotion that’s _not_ under the category “really fucking pissed off.”

Mitchell doesn’t move.

“You need me to do it for you? Is tha’ it?” Grayson advances aggressively, fingers moving to grasp hold of the bottom hem of the white shirt.

Mitchell doesn’t know where this is going and he hesitates and tries to push Grayson away with his filthy hands, “Aye, what’re you doin’? Oi! Stop it! Stop!”

Grayson is very close, heat radiating off him, eying Mitchell like _he’s_ the fucking weirdo.

“Oh, you can do it yourself now?” Grayson folds his arms, a smug expression on his face.

“Why would I want to take my shirt off?” Mitchell looks at Grayson out of the corner of his eye. His cheeks are flushed, eyes restless. He can feel the blood flowing from his nose again. Grayson observes warily.

“How else am I gonna get the stain out,” the other boy points to the red, turning brown, splotch on the front of the cotton white shirt, hissing in abhorrence, “if you won’t take it off, _fuckwad_.”

The moment Mitchell looks down to study the blemish, the blood rushes faster and Grayson moves forward to tip the boys chin up, simultaneously grabbing the tissue from his hand and holding it to his nose for the second time that day. Mitchell looks into Grayson’s eyes, examining for some sign of humor, some sign that this is the biggest joke that someone’s ever played on him. He wonders if Rem Dogg is hiding in one of the stalls, ready to pop out and pull out his phone to video.

Mitchell takes hold of the tissue again and Grayson draws back, pulling off his own shirt. Mitchell stares. _What the fuck. What the actual fuck._

“See? You don’t ‘ave to be awkward. Give it ‘ere,” Grayson is half-grinning now, still some hostility in his tone.

The older boy doesn’t have washboard abs or anything to brag about, but he is apt and decent, at least more so than Mitchell, who realizes he’s staring and drops his gaze to the tiled floor.

Hesitantly, he pulls the shirt over his head, aware of Grayson’s gaze on him, tossing him the balled up material and throwing out the tissue to grab fresh paper towels.

The sink runs absently as Grayson uses hand soap to scrub at his fancy shirt.

“It’s not comin’ out, fucking _hell_ ,” Grayson hisses, his tone muddled and gray again.

Mitchell wonders if he’s imagining this all. “Peroxide,” Mitchell manages, head growing woozy, stomach nauseous, “Get’s the blood ou’,” he leans against the wall.

“Don’t got any uh tha’ fancy stuff. Bet the nurse does though, ol’ codger always ‘as the strongest shit,” Grayson glances over. Mitchell wants to hurl.

“Oi, you alrigh’, mate?” Grayson switches off the faucet and rushes over to cup Mitchell’s face with cool, wet hands.

Mitchell is just _waiting_ for Rem Dogg to show up, the two of them standing in the washroom, shirtless, Frank fucking Grayson cupping his face and peering into his lidded eyes to make sure he’s okay when _he’s_ the one who socked Mitchell in the first place.

 _What would Grayson’s friends think about this?_ Mitchell simpers dazedly as Grayson is picking the lock to the nurse’s office to cop some pills and peroxide.

Grayson fumbles quietly through cupboards and drawers as Mitchell slouches on one of the tables, nose no longer erupting like a volcano but dripping gently and steadily. Grayson looks jittery, antsy, as if he hasn’t done this a hundred times, even bumping his head when withdrawing from a low cubby. The older boy hastens across the room with various bottles, stuffing all, except one, in his pocket. Quick hands pop off the lid to the Advil, measuring out two and dumping them into Mitchell’s palm. He takes the tablets, one at a time, watching Grayson watching him as he does so. And for a moment, Grayson’s hand comes up to cup the side of Mitchell’s face and they stay that way, and it feels like he’s leaning in, face so close to Mitchell’s, growing ever nearer. Grayson’s eyes are locked on Mitchell’s lips and he wouldn’t dare to move or even _breathe_ , especially as Grayson flicks his eyes up, expression deadly, voice piercing, nose scrunching like a snarling dog for emphasis, “You better not fuckin’ tell anybody ‘bout this,” giving Mitchell three, too-hard, good-natured slaps on the cheek before retracting and sauntering away, calling back, “And don’t ever **fucking** wear my threads again, ya, piss-ant little twat,” slamming the door behind him hard enough to make the walls tremble. Mitchell rubs his cheek. Grayson must be referring to the fact that he _didn’t_ beat Mitchell senseless and instead stood shirtless in a bathroom with him, gently touching his face, before breaking into the nurse’s office to get him medicine. Charming.

Mitchell stares blankly at the door. “I wonder if West Ham won,” he smirks to himself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Extra:

via tumblr (bbc-love)


	2. Biology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: explicit sexual content ahead (I kept it pretty vague though).

It’s biology the next morning, the class before lunch break, when Mitchell sees Grayson again. Mitchell is sitting near the back with Rem Dogg, taking turns carving dicks in the desk as Ms. Gulliver stands at the whiteboard explaining enzymes. The task of desk carving is, when done right, a long and tedious one, yet the immaculate design is able to withstand many terms without wearing away. If the carving is completed with careful reverence, of course.

“You’ve ‘ad the cutters for long ‘nuff, pass ‘em over,” Rem Dogg whispers harshly, nudging Mitchell in the ribs.

“One sec, lemme finish off the left nut,” the other boy replies, tongue tucked between his teeth, absorbed in his work. He prides himself on his detailed accuracy and won’t be rushed by Rem Dogg’s impatience.

They sit silently for several long moments.

Gulliver is drawing a diagram on the board.

“You’ve been workin’ on tha’ for three days, it’s my turn,” Rem Dogg retorts, arms crossed.

“Oh shu’ up an’ take ‘em, ya wanker,” Mitchell rolls his eyes, sliding the scissors over. He admires his work, beaming a little, slightly less than halfway finished with the overall structure.

Observing a present lack of occupation, Mitchell gazes with glazed eyes at the whiteboard. Gulliver appears to have sketched a very shriveled circle with a gangly hole in the side.

“The fuck is tha’,” Mitchell calls out.

A few kids on the left side of the class laugh.

“That, Mitchell, is an enzyme, and, with the help of a substrate…” Ms. Gulliver turns to the board and scrawls out a saggy noodle-shaped object, “it can speed up reactions! Simply amazing that such a--,” Gulliver starts into more detail until an interruption cuts her off.

“Looks like uh limp chode,” Grayson sits a row back and on the left side of the classroom, compared to where Mitchell and Rem Dogg situate themselves. He’s fiddling with the tabletop gas nozzle that they use to light the Bunsen Burners on lab days.

Giggles erupt once again.

Ms. Gulliver just looks at him tiredly before turning back to the board to label the diagram.

Rem Dogg is absorbed with his own artwork, the scissors pressed firmly in his grasp, unlikely to release them any time soon. Mitchell glances around the room, sifting for something to encompass his attention. He can hear the quiet hum of Grayson’s voice murmuring to his buddies, making obscene jokes about the drawings on the board, and with ears suddenly hot, Mitchell denies his brains request to cock his head in their direction to snag a glimpse. He chews the thick inside of his cheek absentmindedly, eyes frozen straight forward. He doesn’t care that Grayson is in the same biology class as him, not bothered one bit. And he’s absolutely not focused on the way that Grayson grinned, lighthearted, carefree, just messing around, when he made his wisecrack. He’s definitely not replaying the scene over in his head right now. He’s listening to Gulliver, he’s listening to her boringly cheery voice talk about plants or some shit… _whatever_. Biology is such a _useless_ subject, why would Mitchell ever need to describe an enzymatic relationship in the real world? He wouldn’t. He wonders what Grayson would think about his dick carving. He looks down and realizes his fingers are gripping the table, white at the knuckles. He’s on edge is all. Maybe he’s got a sneeze that won’t come out. He should get a tissue. From the box. At the back of the classroom. Next to the pencil sharpener… and Grayson’s seat… But, he’s not gonna look at Grayson. Why would he look at Grayson? Grayson wants Mitchell as far away from him as possible, hates his guts, that’s why he punched him in the face yesterday, right? But then why did he fix the situation afterwards? And where did the gentleness come from? Mitchell’s hands are sweating. It’s the sneeze. He needs tissues. Right. Back of the classroom.

Abruptly, he stands, legs unsure of themselves.

Ms. Gulliver looks up from the open textbook on the podium to stare at Mitchell, just standing there, not moving, barely breathing.

_What the fuck is wrong with me? Why is this so difficult?_

Gulliver raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Tissues… I… Allergies…” Mitchell tries to reason, using hand motions, not making any sense to himself or anyone else.

Gulliver nods, still skeptical, but returns to her detailed description of a “binding site,” wordlessly.

He breathes. One foot in front of the other he shuffles, looking at the polished floor sheepishly, scooting past Rem Dogg and into the aisle. Jing sits, hunched over across the space, writing down, in a composite notebook half-filled with centimeter-tall penmanship, about every word that comes out of Gulliver’s mouth aside from “No, humans can’t perform photosynthesis, Joe” and “Rem Dogg, It’s physically impossible for homo sapiens to mate with slugs.”

The back of the classroom feels like it’s miles away, impossible to reach.

_Everyone’s watching. They can hear my thoughts._

His feet feel like lead, trudging forward, forcing his hands into the pockets of his gray uniform pants to come across as nonchalant and cool. His heart is racing out of his chest, pulse in his ears like the hooves of a stallion pounding the forest floor. Is he moving in slow motion? Is he even moving at all? He keeps his head slightly bowed until he arrives at the back counter, looking straight ahead at the tacky posters that cover the back wall along with various diagrams of cells and bacteria that look like they were printed in 2004 and weren’t cool back then either. As Mitchell fiddles with the tissue box, he trains his eyes on the words “Biology rocks!” and “Let us pause now, for a moment of Science,” to keep him from looking a meter and a half to his right.

His will is starting to break. His skin crawls, legs electrically charged and sparked with anticipation. He most definitely is crushing the cardboard box with the strength of his grip.

_Turn back around. Go back to your seat. You’ve got your tissues; go back to your seat, idiot!_

His thoughts are blazing in fifty different directions. He stuffs the tissues in his left pocket, moving slowly and rickety like a machine. He can’t tell if he’s shaking anymore. He can’t remember the last time a clear thought popped into his head. And as though it was programmed into his code, he looks over in the direction of Grayson, attempting to be casual about it, who simultaneously lifts his head from checking his phone in his lap, flashing a shrouded half-grin.

“Oi, dickface, betchya class’ll be let ou’ early,” Grayson says, glancing in Gulliver’s direction before returning his attention.

Mitchell can’t breathe. He can’t move. Oh, God what’s _happening_.

He glances down at Grayson's mouth, trying to find anywhere to place his attention except the other boy's forceful glare. Bad idea. Grayson's bottom lip is noticeably puffy and swollen--not too much to appear awkward--but just enough to cause attention. And Mitchell,  _he_ was the one who caused it. A little voice in the back of his mind wonders if his lip is sore, if it would hurt if he accidentally bit it... If  _someone else_ accidentally bit it... 

“Wh-why do you say tha’?” Mitchell whispers back quickly to interject his own train of thought. Where the hell did all his confidence go? In Form K, Mitchell is boisterous, always cracking jokes about Alfie’s nonexistent sex life, speaking so languidly, so easily. But _this_ ; this is some kind of chore, talking to Grayson. He just fucking stuttered.

_Just calm the fuck down. Look like you don’t give a shit about what he has to say next._

Oh, and Grayson is looking at Mitchell with that face, eyes narrowed, like he knows everybody’s secrets. And that _grin_. All the blood has left Mitchell’s face.

“Does anyone else smell that?” Ms. Gulliver speaks suddenly. Mitchell almost pisses himself. He had forgotten where he was and that they aren’t as alone as they had been yesterday afternoon.

The other students sit silently.

“Where is that _coming_ from?” Gulliver is on the move. She takes three steps from behind her desk and makes a face, almost gagging as it would seem.

“Alright class, it seems there has been a gas leak, everyone out,” Ms. Gulliver rushes behind her desk to grab her phone and dial.

Mitchell looks back to Grayson whose hand rests on the gas valve handle turned all the way to the left. Slowly, everyone collects their bags and move toward the door, quiet conversation scattered amongst the bodies. Grayson stands too.

“See?” His face is so close to Mitchell’s as he passes, shoulders brushing.

And something explodes inside Mitchell, a sensation he’s never felt so strongly before in his life. As his classmates file out into the hallway, Mitchell breaks into a sprint towards the men’s room as soon as he finds room, practically throwing the door off his hinges, busting into a stall and barely thinking to lock it as he unzips his fly. He’s not thinking, not thinking about Grayson, not thinking about anything, not thinking about the other boy’s dark eyes and mischievous grin or how close they stood yesterday in the bathroom, neither wearing a shirt, and Grayson’s cool hands against his cheek. Mitchell gets his hand in his briefs, stroking himself desperately, rushed, biting down on his bottom lip to hold in quiet moans and shallow breathing. Grayson stood so close to him a mere minute ago in the classroom, he was looking directly into Mitchell’s eyes, lip heinously  _swollen,_ puffy and tender.

 _"Fuck,"_ he breathes out, putting his hand out to brace himself on the door.

But, Mitchell isn’t thinking about this, of course he fucking isn’t, he’s thinking about something else, _anything else._ He’s not thinking about how near their faces were yesterday in the nurse’s office; he’s not thinking about how he could have closed the distance between them and—and then he’s coming hard, seeing white behind eyes squeezed shut. Mitchell presses his back against the stall door, breathing hard, looking up to the ceiling as though it might give him some advice on what the hell just happened. He silently prays that no one else is using the stalls around him as he carefully pulls the tissues out of his pockets and cleans himself off, zipping up his pants. Where did this come from? He barely knows Grayson, practically just met the kid for real yesterday… Over a fistfight… And Mitchell definitely doesn’t consider himself gay, he likes _girls_ for chrissake.

He’s just having an off week, he tells himself, these emotions or whatever the fuck they are, will go away. And it’s not like anyone knows about this; he doesn't have to hide a single thing. As he washes his hands and checks his uniform in the mirror, he vows to ignore what just happened, to push it out of his thoughts. In Mitchell’s mind, he's going to pretend Grayson didn't have anything to do with what he did in the bathroom stall. In Mitchell's mind, Grayson means nothing. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Extra:

Via Jack Bence's twitter


	3. The Game Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter is basically just Mitchell trying to deal with his emotions the whole time. I hope you guys enjoy it!

Okay, so maybe overlooking the problem wasn’t the _best_ idea.

In a single school day, Mitchell ends up seeing Grayson on seven different occasions. Not that he’s counting or anything. It’s just blatantly obvious. He never even knew that Grayson was in his art class until the older boy sat down directly facing him across the rectangular chair configuration, not on purpose, no doubt, grinning and snorting out an, “Oi, Mollinson. We doin’ naked pictures today?” And Mitchell doesn’t want to hear Grayson’s casual gloating about all the nudes he’s seen before to his friends. Instead, he lets Joe, sitting two seats down, fill his head with this ridiculous theory about Indie Rap evolving into a genre, trying to keep his eyes down on the paper in front of him, for he knows if he glances up, he’ll manage to find a reason to stare at the boy directly in his line of sight. He can feel his pulse in his fingers, he’s pretty sure. He taps the butt end of his pencil on the table, fidgety and unkempt. The class feels like an eternity.

*                                                          *                                                          *

That same day, at lunch, Mitchell shows up to the canteen late, but just in time to watch a food fight unfold. Unsurprisingly, Grayson is ruffing up some poor sod who took the last carton of milk and everyone’s standing by, just _waiting_. It’s the usual “Frank Grayson gets really fucking pissed off at someone and does something wild in front of the whole world” turn of events. Grayson tosses around insults, standing stock still as a part of his patented intimidation tactics and Mitchell hears the word “nipple” used to offend someone for the first time. He grins at that. Brownie points for creativity. At one point, Grayson pops open the milk carton of the boy’s metal tray, hurling the liquid into the unfortunate chap’s face. Yet, the unfortunate chap makes the mistake of retaliating, grabbing a slimy fistful of beans and, with little luster, tossing it back into Grayson’s face. That’s when everyone else decides that this is their fight as well, propelling food across the cafeteria; cornbread, peas, pudding, all moving through the air like ships in the night. War cries and petrified shrills fill the air, food slopping all over the floors and tables, teenagers moving in every direction, searching for cover like ants in a rainstorm. Truly a disgusting sight to behold, it was, and Mitchell rarely misses a good chance to project table food in the direction of another human person. Yet, before he joins in on the ignominy, he can’t help but stare betwixt the line of fire at the figure who started it all, using both his hands to scoop double the serving of mixed pea medley directly out of the serving tray, hair plastered against his forehead, eyes lively with excitement and fervor. And Mitchell is ashamed that his stomach gets all fizzy and his fingers tingle a little bit at the sight of Frank Grayson. He can feel the heat drawing forth from his cheeks and his legs are reluctant to uproot themselves from the floor. Only when Jing ventures from all the way across the other side of the room to crush her yogurt cup down his blazer front in response to his rude comment that morning about her hairclips being “lez,” does Mitchell tear his eyes away and erupt into motion, welding into a fragment of the chaos.

*                                                                      *                                                               *

When faced with the decision to either: A, attend last period biology or, B, sneak out behind the maths building and light matches until the final bell, Mitchell chooses the latter. He doubts Gulliver will notice his absence. She’s got Grayson blowing up the classroom or giving them all gas poisoning to worry about. With his back against the brick of the building, butt in the gravel, Mitchell searches his coat pocket for his matches. He _would_ light up a cig, but he ran out last week and can’t find his ID to buy another pack. Fingers sift through crumpled receipts and loose change, taking hold of a small cardboard box, grinning a bit to himself.

As he strikes the match, dropping it the asphalt, he leans toward the flame to watch the wood burn more closely. Curiously, as the life releases from the blaze, smoke drifting up delicately, beautifully, an art form in itself, permeating the oxygen with a charred elegance, he strikes another, this time experimenting with sticking his fingers in the inferno until he flinches, sticking fingers from the other hand into the glare.

“Oi, wha’ you doin’ tha’ for? You’ll burn yourself, dipshi’,” a voice penetrates the silent air.

Mitchell stands gracelessly, dropping the matches, tripping over his own feet momentarily before taking four sudden steps back. This is getting ridiculous. Mitchell surmises he’s not the only person who didn’t feel like sitting through last period Biology today either.

Grayson swaggers forward, crouching to use the dying flame to light a cigarette of his own. The butterflies have returned to Mitchell’s stomach and he doesn’t know what to do with them. He averts his eyes, cheeks growing hot. He can feel his hands getting sweaty so he tucks them behind his back to hide it. The air feels thin, hard to breathe in, as though there isn’t enough oxygen in the world for his lungs to grab hold of.

When Grayson stands to his full height, sticking his hand out to offer a draw of the cigarette, Mitchell’s first instinct is to run. No doubt Grayson is aware that Mitchell smokes, but he doesn’t want Grayson’s kindness, it only fuels the flame inside his head and the churning in his stomach. He stares at the little white tube pressed between the other boy’s thumb and index finger, glancing back up at Grayson’s expectant face; he’d much rather shotgun the smoke Grayson’s holding in his mouth right now than take a puff of the cig itself. And with that sudden thought, he turns on his heel and sprints in the other direction, not stopping, even when Grayson calls out, “The fuck d’you think you’re goin’?” forcing his legs to move faster, hopping over the schoolyard fence and running down the sidewalk until the block ends.

Mitchell walks home with his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, eyes down. He can’t escape whatever the hell is going on inside his head. Every time he sees Grayson, he feels all queasy inside and his chest gets all tight. This has never happened with any girl before, he’s always been a “hit it and quit it” kind of guy with no strings attached and no hurt feelings. But that’s what this thing with Grayson has: feelings. A connection. A spark. And Mitchell doesn’t want to confront it. Maybe if overlooking the problem didn’t exactly solve it, then ignoring it altogether will.

The logic makes sense. Dam up the leak at the source and the flood will cease. If Mitchell just avoids Grayson completely, the emotions won’t have anything to spring off of. Besides, there’s no way that Grayson would reciprocate anything that Mitchell experiences. Grayson is the direct opposite of gay. He’s straighter than a flagpole. And Mitchell hates that someone so oblivious can make him feel something so intoxicating.

*                                                                      *                                                           *

The next day, during first period History, Mitchell proposes a game plan: avoid Grayson at all cost. If he can’t _see_ the other boy, then he doesn’t exist and if he doesn’t exist, then he can’t have any effect on Mitchell. It’s foolproof. _Plus_ , Mitchell only has two classes with him, so there’s little to avoid at the end of the day.

He views this whole conundrum as a phase, ignited by meeting the acquaintance of the infamous Frank Grayson. At least that’s what Mitchell reminds himself as he drops down in a chair for second period art. They’re doing painting on canvas today. Cups of acrylic paints of various colors dot the table. Of course Stephen and Chantelle, the two most artistic people in the class, sit in the two seats to the right of Mitchell, discussing the _impossible_ things they’re going to paint as soon as they settle down, making Mitchell feel as useless as a paper bag with opposable thumbs. Mitchell’s eyes wander forward, dancing across the room, lingering briefly on the figure of an attentively engaged Grayson, hording all the reds and blues, mixing all the wrong colors together and always ending up with some shade of brown. Mitchell props his canvas up on the table to block his line of vision. He forces his hands to stop shaking as he picks up a brush. Stephen is eying him dubiously.

“I just really like painting, alrigh’, bruv?” Mitchell retorts and Stephen returns his attention to his own work.

Mitchell stares at the barren expanse of bleached white canvas, biting on his bottom lip. What the fuck is he supposed to draw? He has the artistic sense of a paper bag with opposable thumbs as well. The canvas mocks him. The paints mock him. Even the brush in his right hand, staring up at him with a jovial sneer mocks him.

Joe, who sits on Mitchell’s left, disturbs his thoughts.

“Oh, cool! Refreshments!” Joe beams, grabbing one of the mugs of water used for cleaning the brushes.

“Those are for the brushes, ya scrotum,” Mitchell hisses. He grabs the green and makes the split second decision to paint some trees so nobody could possibly question him or disturb him further. He’s been sitting still for too long. Chantelle is almost halfway done with painting the London skyline. Mitchell dips the bristles in the green hurriedly.

Joe is watching him intently.

“Are you alright, Mitchell?” Joe asks softly.

Mitchell can feel his ears getting hot. He makes short, choppy brush strokes on the material.

“I’m fine’,” Mitchell snaps. He mixes the green with some white paint now to make layers of foliage so the canopy doesn’t look like a big green mess like it does in its current state, “Wha’ the hell is it t’you?”

Joe pauses. He reaches across and grabs the blue with a gratuitous amount of poise and calmness, as if to compensate for Mitchell’s unsteadiness.

“You just look distracted is all,” Joe says, shrugging.

And Mitchell looks at him, mortified, but Joe is too absorbed in his own drawing of a tiger or some shit to see the other boy’s expression. He wonders for a brief moment if he can trust Joe.

The room is rather quiet, atmosphere filled with hushed chatter and quiet laughter. The whole world seems ignorant to Mitchell’s situation.

“‘Ave you ever sort of… _liked_ someone? But like, you don’t really know if you like them. And you _know_ they don’t like you?” Mitchell starts quietly, very conscience of the volume of his voice and the words passing his lips. He hesitates and ponders if he should have asked at all.

“Sure,” Joe says at a normal volume. Mitchell shushes him profusely.

_“Keep your voice down,”_ Mitchell growls, hiding behind his canvas a little more.

Joe stares at him.

“All I’m sayin’ is, ‘ave you ever ‘ad uh sort of feeling for someone, but you don’t really know wha’ it is?” Mitchell explains.

“So you’ve got a crush on somebody?” Joe smiles a little bit.

“Hypothetically. It’s not me, I don’t ‘ave a crush on nobody,” Mitchell stirs more white into the green, slouching a little more in his seat. It’s more white that he needs, and the color’s light enough already, but it’s too late to go back now and he needs something to make it seem like he knows what he’s doing.

The two sit soundlessly once more and return to their respective paintings like nothing ever happened. But, when Mitchell is dotting the top of the canvas with green blots that are _supposed_ to be leaves, he says, “But say I _did_ , like, ‘ave a crush on somebody. What should I do in that situation… I’m not sayin’ I’ve got one… Just like, _what if_?”

Joe smirks to his canvas, “If I was you, I would _tell_ that person I had a crush on them.”

Mitchell swallows hard. No doubt, that wouldn’t end well. He trains his eyes on the little green smudges.

“Why the fuck would you do tha’?” Mitchell whispers back, “Hypothetically.”

Joe is making these swooping motions on the canvas with his brush, “Because it’s flattering ‘nd if it’s really eating you up--,” Mitchell interrupts him, “ _Hypothetically_.”

Joe picks up a different brush, “If it’s, _hypothetically_ , eating you up, then maybe tellin’ ‘em would make you feel better about it.”

Mitchell stares at his artwork. Telling Grayson _anything_ would probably be more trouble than it’s worth. Unless it’s something like “Alfie fell down the stairs and ripped his pants all the way up to his belt loops.”

When confronted with the issue of painting the tree trunks, a little voice in his subconscious plants the idea that Grayson probably has some leftover brown that he could share. Another part of Mitchell’s mind quenches the idea; he’d rather have all his teeth than avoid having to mix the brown himself.

*                                                                      *                                                          *

The day moves painfully slow. Mitchell finds himself constantly looking up at the “seconds” hand on the clock as it slowly moves its course. He eats lunch in the library, attempting to convince Rem Dogg to join him, but the other boy would rather not eat in the library “like a pussy.” Mitchell tries to make the case that it’s actually really badass if they eat in the library because you’re not supposed to bring any food in there, so, by breaking that rule, they’re actually _not_ pussies, but total anarchists. Rem Dogg doesn’t bite and Mitchell spends his lunch period sitting among the books scrolling through Twitter, yet _another_ total badass move since phones are outlawed during school hours. Every now and then, he glances up at the window where clear white light floods in. He can hear laughter and the sound of people playing basketball and kicking a football against the brick of the building, like they’re not supposed to do, but the teachers don’t care enough to enforce Pickwell’s rules so they let the kids at least have that. Occasionally, Mitchell looks up from his screen to glance at the books along the shelves, sometimes finding one with a funny title, like _Breastfeeding: A How-To_ or _Where’s This Hair Coming from?!: Puberty in a Nutshell._

Mitchell doesn’t see Grayson during lunch, as planned for.

*                                                                      *                                                             *

Mitchell keeps his head down on the desk during second to last period biology and when Ms. Gulliver inquires about it, he replies that he feels sick, not that he’s doing it to avoid the attention of a certain someone while simultaneously combatting the urge to turn around and look at them. Being the massive marshmallow she is, Gulliver excuses Mitchell to the nurse’s office for the remainder of biology class and with the freedom to ditch last period maths class and possibly go out to the pub tonight with Rem Dogg, Mitchell heads to Pickwell’s office to try and get out of hurdles practice today after classes due to “illness.”

Pickwell’s jail cell office looks as menacing as ever, little light entering through the murky window, the gloomy walls taking on an aura of the kind of smoke that would billow up from a witch’s pot. Mitchell opts out of sitting; he doesn’t expect to stay long anyway.

“Mr. Harper, what brings you into my office today?” Pickwell grins like a wolf.

“You see, Miss, I don’t feel so well, ‘nd I was just wonderin’ if I could skip hurdles practice today,” Mitchell does his best to sound weak and emaciated

Pickwell’s eyes flash with some sentiment as pitch dark as forced amusement, “Is that so? Well, in that case, I simply can’t let you back out of your sport’s obligation today.”

Mitchell observes the witch with austerity, “But I’m sick.”

“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. Romans 8:18. Have fun at practice today, Mr. Harper,” Pickwell quotes the Bible, shooing Mitchell out with one hand like a dog with muddy paws.

As Mitchell enters into the hall, a noise echoes throughout the abandoned corridor. Classes are in session and no one should be roaming the halls, let alone making loud rackets. Cautiously, Mitchell takes a few muted steps and peeks around the corner.

“Hold still!” Grayson huffs.

“I can’t, my arm’s stuck!” Joe whines.

As per usual, Grayson is stuffing the poor boy into a locker. Mitchell dares not to breathe, but he can’t tear his eyes away. Grayson’s eyes are so determined, so focused and the last thing Mitchell’s brain wants him to do is turn and flee in the other direction like yesterday.

“Uh, almost go’ it…” Grayson exhales harshly, pushing once more until the door will fully shut. He slams the locker with satisfaction.

Joe says nothing, once he’s inside, knowing that there’s no one around to help him.

Silence takes over the hallway. Mitchell slips back in the other direction, hoping his footsteps aren’t echoing.

Despite Pickwell’s verdict, Mitchell skips hurdles practice anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Extra:

(Via messcri on tumblr)


	4. A Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: this chapter is hella explicit

Everything is going fine. Totally fine. Mitchell feels like himself again. He didn’t have biology today and art class was cancelled because Mollinson has the bug and Rem Dogg said he found a pair of panties on the field, so _of course_ Mitchell couldn’t miss that. Everybody is loud with excitement, as it’s last period History and Alfie promised class wars. Rem Dog brags that he found _actual_ cocaine to help bring the battle to life.

“Tha’ looks like Splenda to me,” Mitchell grins, grabbing the ziplock bag full of the white substance and tossing it up and down.

“Nah, bruv, that’s pure Brazilian powder righ’ there,” Rem Dogg folds his arms smugly.

“Yeh. Powdered _sugar_. You couldn’ get off from this if you pu’ it in your coffee,” Mitchell opens the bag and peers inside.

“The old cow who sold i’ to me said i’ was high qual blow,” Rem Dogg reaches for it back, but Mitchell tosses the bag to Jing.

“Oi, Jing, is this the good stuff?” Mitchell grins.

Jing looks at the bag and narrows her eyes at Mitchell.

“How’s she gonna know?” Rem Dogg sneers.

“Well, she’s Chinese, _isn’ she_? She started this whole Opium War,” Mitchell states matter-of-factly.

Jing looks at the bag.

“Go on. Taste it,” Rem Dogg says.

“If it _is_ cocaine. Why would I do that?” Jing glares at the two of them.

“‘Cuz ‘ow else are we gonna know?” Mitchell replies, as if it’s obvious.

Jing tosses the bag back to Mitchell and turns back to her maths homework, annoyed with their rude assumptions.

“You try i’. It’s yours anyway,” Mitchell hands the little pouch back to Rem Dogg.

“No way. You probably know wha’ coke tastes like, you try i’,” The other boy drops the bag back onto Mitchell’s desk.

“I’m no druggie, hop off,” Mitchell retorts stubbornly.

The bell rings and Alfie slinks into the classroom. Everyone is at attention now, eyes trained at the front of the room. Alfie drops down into his chair, droopy and exhausted on a Friday afternoon, posture abominable as always. Yet, suddenly, he bursts into motion, “The year is 1839 and the English don’t have enough dope so they go after the Chinese and—Joe, what’s in your hand?”

Joe is sitting front row, fiddling with a little tiny packet of something.

“Alfie, I think I found weed in a locker yesterday,” Joe holds out the tiny bag for Alfie to examine.

He opens it up and takes a sniff.

“Joe, this is oregano,” Alfie huffs in exhasperation.

“Oi, tha’s the good stuff!” Rem Dogg calls out.

“No, that’s a _spice_ ,” Alfie pinches the bridge of his nose.

The kids in the back start laughing.

By now, the desks have been moved to create a center aisle where the battle will commence. Mitchell is on the left; he always fights for the English. He makes a face at Jing on the right side of the classroom. Chantelle and Stephen sift through the costume box.

“‘ave fun losin’ again, Jing,” Mitchell snorts, grabbing the bag of “cocaine” and shaking it around.

Jing says something back in Chinese and Mitchell can’t understand her, but it doesn’t sound like friendly banter.

And suddenly, the room goes silent.

Standing in the doorway, dead still, is Grayson, eyes dark and unruly, mouth shut and lips pressed into a firm line.

“Gr-Grayson,” Alfie stutters meekly.

“I ain’t ‘ere for you, dickwad,” Grayson growls. He doesn’t even look at Alfie. His eyes are locked forward on Mitchell, “I’m lookin’ for ‘im.”

*                                                                      *                                                             *

Palms sweaty, mouth dry, whole body stiff, Mitchell shuffles out into the hall with Grayson lurking behind like a raincloud. He holds his breath and sharply lets it out when Grayson is suddenly shoving him against the lockers. Forcefully. The metal digs into his back. He looks at the older boy with wide, confused eyes.

“Where the _fuck_ were you yesterday, huh? Got better things to do ‘ave you?” Grayson quips with such menacing bitterness.

Mitchell can only see the other boy’s wild eyes, flashing with anger, jaw set. His heart suddenly isn’t beating and now it’s beating too much. Oh God.

The words don’t come, Mitchell can only stare, dumbfounded.

“Skippin’ practice won’t ‘elp anything. You gotta put in the work,” Grayson is gripping onto the front of Mitchell’s shirt. His tone is lit with a rage so dangerously red and fiery hot that a little part of Mitchell wants to look away, but the rest of him can’t.

The halls rest eerily empty, only their two figures to be found.

“I ‘ad to partner sprint with fuckin’ Peter Phillips. The kid can’t fuckin’ jump worth shit,” Grayson grips harder and shakes Mitchell like a rattle to drive his point.

Mitchell’s mind is spinning. They’re not hurdle partners in the first place. Why does Grayson even care if he missed? Because he had to practice with Peter? And Peter blows chunks at hurdles? But Mitchell isn’t the greatest hopper either, so what’s the difference? And then Mitchell’s eyes wander down to Grayson’s lips, red and plump, wet and shiny. And fuck Mitchell can’t even concentrate on the words coming out of the other boy’s mouth. He’s hissing out phrases with great vehemence, but Mitchell doesn’t know what those phrases are, he’s just so infatuated by the thought of closing the space between them and… he can’t be thinking about this. Not right now. Not any time. Especially when they’re standing so close. But if he could just have one kiss, just a real quick, small kiss, then maybe these thoughts would go away. And then he would never have to look at Grayson again and Grayson would distance himself from Mitchell forever… or drive his fist through his face…

“Oi, you ‘earin’ me, bruv? The fuck are you-,” Grayson starts to go off again. And there’s some part of Mitchell that can’t take this anymore and mid-sentence, Mitchell moves forward quickly, swiftly, so fast that his brain can’t override his decision, pressing their lips together abruptly and determinedly. And Grayson doesn’t draw back. There’s a moment the two are motionless until Grayson draws back, gazing with dark, fearsome eyes, intent and shrouded with some sort of cutting expression that has Mitchell’s breath hitching in his chest. Time stands still, Mitchell can feel his blood running through his veins, and the anticipation is almost deadly until Grayson surges forward, crushing their mouths together, shoving Mitchell back against the locker with a loud clang and the hinges shake. Bodies pressed against bodies, Grayson draws Mitchell’s lower back in, hips against hips, dragging a hand through Mitchell’s short hair and Mitchell is breathless, head spinning, stomach queasy. They move in unison, deepening the kiss, coming back for more and more. Grayson catches Mitchell’s bottom lips between his teeth scandalously teasing before breaking the kiss, eyes filled with dark lust.

Mitchell just gapes at him, so unsure. His cheeks are hot, flushed an embarrassing bright red, and Grayson, he looks fine, perfectly unaffected.

The older boy grins.

*                                                          *                                                        *

When Mitchell woke up this morning, there was no way to predict that Grayson would take him to the men’s changing room in the middle of last period and have him pressed against the locked door, hands on his ass, teeth on his neck, mouth hot and obscenely wet. All Mitchell can do is lean into the other boy’s touch and dig his fingers into the back of Grayson’s blazer mercilessly, holding in his whimpers and most of his moans, silently begging that the layers of clothing between them would go away. Oh, and it’s obvious that Grayson knows what he’s doing, that he knows all Mitchell’s soft spots and Mitchell is just so embarrassed, rutting against Grayson’s legs through his pants. And it’s not like Mitchell’s never done anything before, he’s fooled around with plenty of girls before, but it wasn’t anything more than groping and amateur blowjobs, and this is _Grayson;_ there’s no rulebook for any of the things that the other boy is doing.

Everything’s happening so fast. Grayson unbuckles Mitchell’s belt and shoves his hand down his pants stroking Mitchell fast, grip loose on Mitchell’s painfully hard dick. There’s not enough friction, it’s not fast enough, but it feels so _good_ , and Mitchell can feel his orgasm pooling at the pit of his stomach.

He tosses his head back against the door, “Fuck, I’m gonna,” Mitchell starts and then Grayson withdraws his hand. Fucking tease.

“You better not. We ‘aven’t done anything yet,” Grayson retorts, crushing their lips together, enough to bruise, before shoving Mitchell to his knees.

Grayson’s fingers are at his own belt now, staring down at Mitchell with that expression, that confidence. Mitchell can only stare right back up at him. The older boy’s pants drop around his knees and Mitchell tries so hard not to think about the precum leaking at the front of his own boxers. He stares at the bulge in Grayson’s pants, reaching out a hand to pull out his cock and stroking it a few times.

Grayson rests his hand at the nape of Mitchell’s neck, still watching his every move. Mitchell licks his hand and strokes faster, still unsure of what he’s supposed to be doing. Grayson isn’t making any noises, isn’t moaning, is acting as though this is completely normal while Mitchell’s brain is moving in a hundred different directions.

Grayson’s thumb comes up to swipe across Mitchell’s bottom lip, dipping in briefly to feel the wetness of his tongue, before moving to tip his chin up to look up at Grayson.

“Open,” the older boy says, guiding Mitchell’s mouth onto his dick.

Mitchell has never done this before. He sort of just lets Grayson fuck his mouth, watching his face the whole time, gagging every now and then. He tries his best not to succumb to the urge of shutting his mouth even a bit; he doesn’t want to know what would happen if he accidentally used teeth. Whatever he’s doing seems to be working for Grayson, whose breathing has grown heavy and moans more frequently, hand sturdy on the back of his head. Without warning, Grayson lets out a satisfied sigh and comes in Mitchell’s mouth. Mitchell swallows before he can fully process the taste.

Standing up, Mitchell palms at his own erection through his boxers. Grayson eyes him fondly, encroaching on his space and backing Mitchell up against the door again, his hand moving in between their bodies to grasp Mitchell’s hard-on. Mitchell bucks his hips up and grabs Grayson’s shoulder to gain more friction, anything, but Grayson’s expression darkens and he grabs the younger boy’s wrist and pins it above his head, mouth moving to Mitchell’s ear to nip the sensitive lobe.

Mitchell gasps. He can feel Grayson’s smirk against his skin, hand moving slower with each stroke.

Mitchell is so hard it’s painful. He can feel the heat of Grayson’s body through his shirt.

“Grayson, please,” Mitchell keens, dropping his head forward against the other boy’s shoulder.

“Louder,” Grayson whispers in Mitchell’s ear, sending chills down his spine like a current. He swipes the pad of his thumb over the head of his dick, “I wanna ‘ear you.”

Grayson gives another weak pump.

“Please, fuck, Grayson, please,” Mitchell whines, arching his back.

Grayson teases Mitchell’s jawline with biting kisses, stroking his cock fast, and it’s not long before Mitchell has his head tossed back against the door, coming into Grayson’s hand, a bit getting on his dress pants, stuttering out a moan and seeing white flash behind his eyes squeezed shut, mouth hanging open, lungs heaving for air.

Grayson uses Mitchell’s tie, lying forgotten on the floor, to clean off his fingers as Mitchell is coming down, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. His head is light and confused. He’s not exactly sure what just happened.

“Hey, tha’s mine,” Mitchell manages. His legs feel like jell-o.

Grayson shrugs and tosses it in the garbage.

“Didn’t like i’ anyway…” Mitchell grumbles. He uses a hook to peel himself from the door, teetering a bit before steadying himself.

“Get cleaned up, we’re goin’,” Grayson buckles his belt.

“Wut? Where?” Mitchell looks at him, annoyed.

“Out,” is all Grayson says, narrowing his eyes when he senses the skepticism in Mitchell’s tone, tossing the other boy his blazer before brushing passed him out the door, knocking their shoulders rather hostilely as he goes. Mitchell just tugs on his blazer, rather clumsily, zips up his fly, and follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed!


	5. The Pub

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for uncomfortable conversations that don't confront the problem! This chapter is basically two embarrassed teenage boys ignoring what they just did as well as the rest of the questions they both want to ask! Enjoy! (P.s. sorry for updating so late!!!)

Sitting at a pub with Grayson is not what Mitchell though he’d be doing this afternoon. He had already made plans with Rem Dogg to fill condoms with mayonnaise and throw them at cars on the highway after school, but as he sits in a booth with a pint on the table and Grayson across from him, downing his own, he sort of doesn’t really know what the fuck he did to get there.

He stares at the beer. There’s never a time when Mitchell _doesn’t_ wish that somebody would buy him a round, but there’s a first for everything, ironically. His fingers curl around the cool glass to give the impression that he’s sort of not terrified and utterly confused. His gaze rests on the white foam settling at the top, poking it with his little finger, the bubbles clinging to it. Grayson puts his own empty pint down hard on the table, watching Mitchell with those dark, bemused eyes. Mitchell licks the foam off his finger, a little uncomfortable with being stared at.

“Oi, wha’ ‘re we doin’ ‘ere?” Mitchell blurts out. He can’t help it.

The older boy appears to be studying Mitchell’s face, eyes moving back and forth, expression somewhat blank, yet mildly aggressive, and Mitchell feels something like electricity shooting under his skin. Fuck.

“I though’ I—I didn’ mean to…I mean I’m sorry I kissed you,” Mitchell stutters out, “I ain’ no poof.”

“M’neither,” Grayson says smoothly, swiping Mitchell’s untouched pint and taking three large gulps as if to prove himself further. He seems so calm about this whole thing, unperturbed. And Mitchell is so fucked; he just wants Grayson to explain this, he’s got no idea what’s going on inside his head.

“I mean I don’…I’m no’ into guys,” Mitchell explains.

“ _M’neither_ ,” Grayson replies, slightly more irritated.

“Abou’ wha’ happened in the locker…I jus’-I don’ like to do tha’ stuff,” Mitchell is using his hands to try and describe everything racing around inside his head like the Tour de France. 

“So, you’re sayin’ you didn’ _like_ wha’ we did? You didn’ _enjoy_ i’? huh? Tha’s I’?” Grayson’s tone darkens, hand gripping the pint. It’s not threatening, just harsh.

“No, no, no, no, no, tha’s no’ i’ at all,” Mitchell defends. He can feel his face getting all hot. Fuck, why is it so hard to talk? He doesn't like guys but this is different. It's not gay if it's with someone you really like... Right? But, he doesn't really like Grayson. He just wanted to jack off to the thought of putting his tongue in his mouth and being pressed up against him. And maybe he still kind of wants to do that. At the same time, he kind of really wants Grayson to press him down against a bed and fuck him until he's seeing stars. But that's not gay. It's not the same. And he's 99% sure that Grayson isn't gay either. So they're just two straight guys who don't really want to be friends except for the occasional fuck, but outside of that, they don't talk. That makes sense. But, what if sometimes he wants to talk to Grayson? And sort of wants to be his friend? But they can't fuck and be friends at the same time...because that would make them boyfriends. Mitchell's logic is blurring now.

“Wha’ is i’ then?” Grayson demands, impatiently.

And Mitchell doesn’t know if he can answer that. He hasn’t thought this whole thing through. At all. And Grayson acts as if he needs a response immediately. But, Mitchell has no idea what he’s doing. Is any of this right? Where are the rules? He knows if he talks too quickly, he’ll lose his filter.

“I dunno--I jus’ normally do i’ wif girls is all… I don’ fool aroun’ with guys--it’s no’ tha’ I don’ like to--I mean I don’ like to...tha’s no’ wha’ I mean’—I. Fuck. Sorry,” Mitchell feels like he might puke. He needs a break, just wants to go home, or back to school, or to the highway to throw condoms at cars with Rem.

He can feel Grayson’s gaze on him as he stares at his own hands in his lap.

The table is silent, the only noises coming from a TV at the bar and a few drunk old sods shooting pool or debating at the counter about rugby or some shit.

Mitchell hears the quiet thud of Grayson dropping something on the table, flicking his eyes up to rest on the box of matches he dropped behind the maths building a couple days back. He stares at the little cardboard rectangle, a little battered from use, but still good. He almost smiles. Almost.

“I heard you jackin’ off in the bathroom,” Grayson says, voice level and even, no malice in it whatsoever, eyes completely locked on Mitchell.

And fuck if that isn’t embarrassing as hell. Mitchell can feel his ears getting hot now.

“And I jus’ wanted to kick open tha’ fuckin’ door ‘nd fuck you righ’ there, in the stall,” Grayson’s voice sounds sort of scratchy as he says it, expression dark with lust. He licks his lips, letting a breath out.

“Why didn’ you?” Mitchell suddenly replies, gaze shifting from the box of matches to Grayson’s face. He doesn’t know what he would have done if Grayson had actually kicked the door in and fucked him; he probably would have come before the older boy even touched him. Grayson has loosened his grip on the pint by now, disinterested.

“I dunno,” is all Grayson lets on. And Mitchell understands it. He understands it the same way as Mitchell understands his own fear of his own unreciprocated feelings. Maybe Frank Grayson was afraid that Mitchell wouldn’t like him back. But then again, maybe this isn’t “liking”—maybe this is just a quick one-time thing… or a once-in-a-while thing… or an every day after school thing… Mitchell doesn’t really know. And looking at Grayson’s hand on the pint glass, he wonders if he’s allowed to _hold_ it, or if that crosses some imaginary line from being straight to gay. He’s pretty sure Grayson isn’t looking for a relationship here, just something to put his dick into without the fuss of girls and emotions and feelings. But, Mitchell just really wants to hold his hand, and fuck if that’s unfair because the whole “kissing Grayson in the hallway by the lockers” was supposed to _get_ _rid_ of the stupid attraction, not make it worse.

Uncomfortable, Mitchell sort of pulls out his phone and pretends to read his texts or something. He knows it’s rude, but he suddenly doesn’t want to be here anymore, like really doesn’t want to be here. Grayson doesn’t seem to mind though, just sitting there quietly, staring at the football posters on the walls.

“School’s almos’ over. We should be gettin’ back,” Mitchell says distantly.

Grayson says nothing, appearing weary, gazing with bored eyes. Apparently the conversation has ended because Grayson no longer appears like he wants to participate.

“I’ve gotta be somewhere,” Mitchell says, moving to shift a little out of the booth.

Grayson stays put, stock still, almost glaring now, like he knows Mitchell doesn’t have anywhere to be that is important, like he knows that he’s just going with Rem Dogg to fuck off somewhere. The older boy still says nothing about it though, doesn’t confront it like all the other problems hidden under the surface.

“You can stay ‘ere if you wan’, but I’ve gotta go,” Mitchell is so uncomfortable, he wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He looks at the almost finished pint on the table, then back at Grayson, wondering if the older boy might throw it at his head. He still doesn’t know if Grayson wants to tear his kidneys out 24/7 or not and he doesn’t particularly want to wait to find out. Grayson takes another big gulp from the glass.

“Cheers,” Mitchell gives a sort of half wave and turns on his heel, striding out the door, hoping to God that Grayson doesn’t follow him, some part of him still wishing he would.


	6. The Mud Pit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mitchell is so bad with "feelings" omg he just makes everything so much worse what a little noodle and Grayson is just the personification of "no homo" in this chapter wow

Rain drums against the gray, filmy windows, melancholy and solemn. It’s last period on a Tuesday and Mitchell can’t recall another moment he’s ever been so bored in his life. There came a time, approximately twenty minutes ago, when staring at the back of Joe’s head stopped being interesting. The clock on the wall ticks tortuously slow, smirking down from its perch, _mocking_ Mitchell with a sense of pride only a school clock could possess. _Jesus, I could’ve re-written the Bible by now, hurry the hell up._ It’s no use either way; Mitchell can’t go home anyway. Of course hurdles practice lands on the most inconvenient of days; Rem Dogg invited him to sneak into the movie theatre to see that new Marvel movie that afternoon. It’s raining for chrissake. Isn’t that a danger to Mitchell’s safety and wellbeing? Couldn’t he slip and seriously twist his ankle?

Fraser decided to vanish for the day and since Pickwell doesn’t believe in “rest days,” all sports, outdoor included, are to commence as usual. The final bell rings and Mitchell shoulders his backpack.

“‘ave fun pissin’ off again,” Rem says with a twisted grin; he knows how much Mitchell detests his athletic requirement.

“‘ave fun sittin’ at ‘ome alone by yourself again, ‘cuz you ain’t got no other friends, ya twat,” Mitchell snorts back, shrugging away laughing when Rem Dogg swats at him viciously.

Wind scrapes against the walls of the school, threatening to hurl a branch through a window, as Mitchell shuffles down the hall to the changing rooms. Good. Exercise, pleasant weather, and Grayson, is just what Mitchell wants to spend his afternoon with. He hasn’t exactly confronted the older boy these past few days, and if he jacked off last night to the thought of riding Grayson’s dick, well, he doesn’t have to admit that to anybody. Grayson’s daunting is all, and Mitchell doesn’t know exactly what he should be doing in his current position. Should he pursue this? Try to make the best of the situation (as Gulliver would, _so optimistically_ , say)? Mitchell’s 98% sure that Grayson doesn’t feel any other emotions aside from pissed off and really fucking pissed off. And Mitchell, well, he _can_ get a bit attached sometimes, and emotionally, he doesn’t get all that worked up about things, except that  Toy Story 3 was sadder than he anticipated; it’s not his fault that he had something in his eye that made his eyes a little watery… and that Andy went to college… but, he really didn’t have to leave Woody behind, he still could’ve brought Woody with him to college, they could’ve stayed together dammit. But, Mitchell doesn’t care, he’s cool, he’s fine.

Mitchell slips into his running uniform quickly, without fuss, trying not to draw any attention to himself as usual. He picks a discrete corner to change out of earshot of Grayson, attempting to blend into the walls, mesh with the lockers and the tangle of bodies slipping out of blazers and boots. The air is a bit humid, clinging to his skin like an extra layer. With the rain comes the scent of fresh mud and wet grass, glistening in the gray afternoon. The storm whipping about is less than appealing. He’d much rather be at home in front of the TV. Or anywhere that isn’t running hurdles in the middle of a storm.

Pickwell materializes out of the deluge like a witch, wearing a repulsive charcoal-colored pantsuit. It’s truly a terrifying sight. Her makeup is smeared down her face looking like a painting out of Picasso’s “blue period,” a wreck of plum and black across a pale complexion acting as a canvas.   
“Mr. Harper, nice of you to show,” the creature grins with ghastly teeth. Her hair is plastered all over the place and for a moment, the storm looks weak in comparison to the Scottish beast.

The other guys stand awkwardly about, sort of not doing anything except squinting through the rain, wondering if they can feign an injury. Mitchell swipes a hand through his hair. It’s getting a little longer lately. Normally his mom tells him when he’s getting a haircut, but lately, she hasn’t said anything about it. He wonders if he can grow it out long enough to gel it, maybe even mess around a bit with one of those snobby cowlicks that all the rich, prep school kids sport.

Pickwell blows a whistle aggressively.

“Line up!” she bellows after next to nobody moves.

Reluctantly, the hurdles team, a truly pathetic lot, shuffles into place on the track.

“Alright. I’ve been informed that this group hasn’t won a match yet,” Pickwell rants as she paces, “And I just find that appalling.”

“We’ve had one meet,” a voice calls out weakly from down the line.

“How _dare_ you speak out of turn, Mr. Douglas. Take a lap,” Pickwell hisses. Her voice sounds like thunder.

Tommy Douglas, a stick-like, freckly boy, with pale blue eyes, looks like he’d be a better fit in chess club or mathletes than _hurdles_. Mitchell feels a bit sorry for him. Especially when he sort of starts running, knees all knobby and wobbly, like they can barely hold up the rest of his legs, let alone his whole body. Mitchell watches Tommy become a faint little dot against the rain in the distance, chugging along, wondering if Tommy sputters out, they could all go home. Or at least act as a distraction as Mitchell hops the fence and catches the bus.

Pickwell explains the practice she has “all planned out” for them today, a long list of military-like drills to foster “mental and emotional endurance” as well as the “physical build of a chiseled, Greek god.” Mitchell may or may not have gagged in the back of his throat when her lips formed those words. Pickwell chose partner exercises as the basis for the “training,” and even handpicked the partners herself.

With amazing luck, Mitchell ends up with another boy who isn’t Grayson, a tall, thin boy named William, who always looks like he’s squinting even when the sun is hidden behind eight layers of cumulonimbus clouds. They don’t make it through fifteen pushups before Grayson has found his way over to Mitchell and William, threatening Mitchell’s workout partner with some pretty hefty language, not even close to being appropriate for an educational atmosphere, and replacing William as Mitchell’s partner. The younger boy stares at Grayson with a delicate, bemused expression to which Grayson responds, “finish your damn pushups,” averting his eyes, a pink hue dancing across his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

There’s a little queasiness in the pit of his stomach as Mitchell completes his exercises, wordlessly, but very aware of the other boy’s presence by his side. A certain discomfort skims the surface in the back of his mind that comes from refusing to confront the problem. They did what they did in the locker room last week, neither can change that, and yet, here Grayson is again, not avoiding Mitchell, not aggressive with him either. In fact, Grayson came over by his own free will to be Mitchell’s workout partner.

The rain pounds down like little drops of lead, heavily marauding the field. They’re not twenty minutes into the workout when it happens. Grayson and Mitchell are running along the track, doing their best to avoid the larger puddles, socks soaked, white sneakers dyed brown, clothes wet and droopy, clinging to their bodies. They’re a far distance away from everybody else, feet hitting the ground unevenly.

“You doin’ anythin’ afta?” Grayson says suddenly, voice quiet against the sound of the downpour. He looks around before he says it, as if checking to see if anyone might hear him ask it.

“Why,” Mitchell replies, the word coming out a little dry and choked off. His palms are sweaty so he clenches them into tighter fists to ignore them.

“I dunno, I just thought you migh’ wanna ge’ somethin’ to eat or somethin’ is all, I dunno,” Grayson looks over his shoulder again.

And that annoys Mitchell a little.

“Like a date?” Mitchell stares at Grayson, whose face twists into a grimace of sorts.

“No, not like a date a’ all, the fuck would you say tha’? It’s just gettin’ food is all,” Grayson protests quickly.

Silence settles again.

Grayson glances over his shoulder.

“So… a date?” Mitchell states again.

Grayson stops running now so Mitchell does too. They’re at the far end of the track near a small area with trees and a rotting picnic bench and a big, hazelnut-colored mud pit that leads off of the track where it curves.

“If I say it’s no’ a date, then it’s no’ a date, you go’ i’, bruv?” Grayson is standing awfully close now, face dead serious and venomous, his chest rising and falling steadily.

And Mitchell wants to confront Grayson right now, wants to know why he’s standing so close and why he wanted to work out with him and why he hasn’t smashed his head into the concrete yet.

“Tha’ sounds a bit gay to me,” Mitchell shrugs, jogging along without Grayson.

A moment passes.

The rain falls.

Grayson sprints to catch up, calling after, “It’s _no’_ gay, it’s jus’ goin’ ou’ for food, how’s tha’ gay, I’m no’ gay, and you’re no’ gay, so how can tha’ be gay? S’not a date it’s jus--,” Grayson is going off, but Mitchell doesn’t really want to hear it.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing or why he does it, but he abruptly interrupts Grayson’s soliloquy. Maybe he does it because he knows Grayson won’t hurt him; he doesn’t know why he won’t, but he knows he’s not going to.

“Sounds pretty fuckin’ gay to me,” is all Mitchell says, and then Grayson is tackling Mitchell to the ground.

Amazing enough, the mud pit breaks their fall, sending the two bodies slipping and tumbling through the filth. The two grab onto the other, pushing and shoving and rolling to shove the other off. Expletives are exchanged and other heinous phrases until Pickwell pries them apart and dismisses them from practice. Mitchell is almost applauded by the others as he stalks off in the direction of the changing rooms. On the outside, it looks like Mitchell just stood up to Frank Grayson, the most fearsome person in school. On the inside, Mitchell knows that he just pushed the limits and Grayson let him off easy.

He brushes some of the dried mud off his forearm, idly preoccupying himself for the time being. The changing room is dim, a gray-blue aura about it, just about as dreary as it is inside as it is outside. Flipping on the faucet to fill the silence, Mitchell pulls off his once bleach-white practice shirt and drops it in the sink with a satisfying squish, following with his shorts after toing off his running shoes. The sink fills with murky, silt water, the clothes blocking the drain. And still, Mitchell waits. He waits for the sound of the door to open, for the sound of the rusty hinges to give way. The stillness of the room makes his nerves jumpy. He glances at himself in the mirror, dragging a hand across his smudged cheeks, some of the dirt peeling away easily.

The sound of scuffed footsteps has Mitchell’s heart stuttering.

When Grayson enters the changing room, he says nothing, only stares back at Mitchell, who stands only in his socks and underwear, eyes locked, dark and penetrating. Those eyes gaze with so much lust, so unforgiving and hungry, and Mitchell doesn’t want to move, lest Grayson turns away.

The tension filling the room is so palpable that Mitchell just wishes that Grayson would take the five steps between them, press him up against the wall, and kiss him hard enough to bruise. But Grayson doesn’t. His face remains furious as he undresses, the room weighed down by words unsaid.

Mitchell wants to say it’s okay, that he doesn’t mind if Grayson wants to fuck him right there, so turned on it hurts, but he doesn’t know if the other boy would want to hear it. He wants to apologize, he knows the whole “gay” thing is a touchy topic, but he doesn’t do that either. And with so much regret gripping Mitchell’s conscience, a small part of him is annoyed that Grayson got so angry, that he flipped out over Mitchell calling it as it is, that Grayson could be _ashamed_ of what he did with Mitchell.

Grayson slams the door as he leaves, and despite every fiber in his body telling him to, Mitchell doesn’t run after him.


	7. Supply Closet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically just a short update with porn lol

Mitchell can tell Grayson is angry. It’s pretty damn obvious from the way he takes it out on everybody else, shoving Joe into lockers more than usual, going out of his way to rough up Alfie multiple times in a school day, and starting fights in the hallways that always end in at least three innocent people getting hurt. Mitchell doesn’t want to confront the idea that this is, most definitely, undoubtedly, his fault. And yet, Grayson is somewhat avoiding him.

He ignores Mitchell during the two classes they share and sits as far away from him as possible during lunch, and recently, there’s been no sign of the other boy hanging out behind the maths building during class. A little part of Mitchell misses his presence, his determined gaze and confident smirk. Initially, he decided to take a step back and just let Grayson cool down with time, but Mitchell can now see that the longer he waits idly by, the more angry and vengeful the older boy grows. It becomes pretty clear after about four days that Mitchell has to be an adult and talk out the issue before something actually bad happens.

He contemplates the encounter all day, how he should approach Grayson, what he should say, when he should do it, etc., but he finds it hard to locate exactly what he did wrong. They got into a little fist fight was all it really was; it’s not like they haven’t done that before. Maybe this time was a little different because they know each other better now, but Mitchell can’t find any good reason why Grayson should still be mad at him. Grayson should be the one apologizing, but then again, the older boy doesn’t apologize to anybody, so Mitchell has to be the one to do it, not only because other people are being affected by Grayson’s aggression, but because Mitchell kind of wants to hang out with Grayson again… Not in like a date kind of way, but in sort of a friend way… where they end up making out and jerking each other off or something… whatever…

It’s during lunch that Mitchell gathers up the courage to walk up to Grayson in the food line. He forces one foot in front of the other, staring blankly at Grayson’s back, his built shoulders through the blazer. He can imagine his hands pulling that blazer off and tossing it on the chair, feeling Grayson’s warmth through his shirt…

Grayson is talking to one of his buddies, laughing at a joke or something, head tossed back ever so slightly, eyes crinkling around the edges, when Mitchell approaches.

“Uh, hi,” Mitchell forms the words nervously. He tucks his hands inside his pockets to keep them from fidgeting. Is he allowed to come up to Grayson like this? In front of all his friends? Where there are people watching them?

Grayson turns his head to look over and his face grows serious—serious like Mitchell is the last person on earth who Grayson wants to see right now. His eyes are narrowed, dark, and stare pointedly at Mitchell who fights the urge to turn and sprint in the other direction. Maybe this isn’t a good time. He can feel his skin prickle.

“Wha’ do you want?” Grayson says low in his throat. It’s intimidating. Mitchell’s hands are sweating. He forcibly keeps them in his pocket.

“I jus’ wanted to talk, er somethin’ like tha’,” Mitchell can feel the glares of Grayson’s friends on him now, like they’re closing in on him like a school of hungry sharks and he’s just a minnow.

“S’tha’ righ’?” Grayson folds his arms across his chest. He looks bigger, more menacing, looming over Mitchell when he’s actually not that much taller than him.

Mitchell nods and swallows weakly.

“Well, let’s ‘ave our little chat somewhere else, _shall we_?” Grayson steps forward swiftly, tossing his arm casually over Mitchell’s shoulder like they’re the best of friends. Grayson’s friends are grinning and shoving each other, but they don’t follow him. Grayson’s grip is tight on Mitchell’s shoulder as he marches him out of the lunchroom and into the empty hallway, as if to remind the younger boy what he’s dealing with if he tries to break free. Mitchell keeps his eyes trained forward after sneaking a glimpse at the grim expression plastered on Grayson’s face. Not good. Not going as planned.

Grayson takes a sharp left turn and then an abrupt right before backing Mitchell into a supply closet and shutting the door. He can hear the lock click behind him. The lighting in the room is dim and the supply closet is small. There’s a sink to his right and various brooms and mops that look untouched and forgotten in the corner against a row of shelves. Grayson stands like a mountain against the door, still and intimidating.

“Look, Grayson,” Mitchell begins, and Grayson locks his focus on Mitchell as if he’d forgotten the other boy was there and that he was standing in the supply closet for a completely different reason than this conversation, “I didn’ mean to say wha’ I did the other day.”

_Except I said what I said and you totally overreacted and none of this is my fault, now grow up and stop ignoring me, you dick._

Mitchell doesn’t say that part, because he’s pretty sure Grayson would make it so he wouldn’t make it out of the supply closet, at least not without the aid of a wheelchair, so he lets his weak statement hang dully in the air.

He catches the movement of Grayson’s finger twitching experimentally by his side.

Grayson doesn’t say anything, so Mitchell takes that as a cue to keep going.

“I was jus’ tired ‘nd I didn’ mean to ‘urt your feelings, okay?” Mitchell’s voice drops off for the second half of the sentence because as soon as he says the word “feelings,” something seems to click on in Grayson’s mind. His face grows dark and angry. He cracks his knuckles with ease.

“Is tha’ wha’ you think you did? ‘urt my feelings?” Grayson steps forward.

Mitchell takes a step back. “N-no, I just thought—,” he stammers, but is interrupted.

“Well, you though’ wrong. I ain’t no fairy. Go’ i’?” Grayson is so close to Mitchell, faces almost touching, voice low and raspy, but deadly as hell. His thoughts swirl around the vague realization that Grayson is angry because Mitchell sort of hinted that Grayson was gay, but he doesn’t dare make the clarification fully, lest he might accidentally let something slip again in the future.

Mitchell nods. He’s vaguely aware there’s a shelf of cleaning supplies behind him, but he doesn’t really register it’s there before Grayson shoves him up against it, grabbing him by the lapels of his blazer. He puts his leg between Mitchell’s legs, thigh right against his crotch, unintentionally no doubt. His lips are centimeters from Mitchell’s.

“Jus’ because I don’ _hate_ you doesn’ mean you can pull shi’ like wha’ you did a’ hurdles practice,” Grayson says. Mitchell can feel his breath on his skin and it sends chills down his arms. Grayson’s pupils are dilated. His lips are so close…

And Mitchell can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, can practically feel his own blood pumping through his veins. Fuck, how he wants to just lean in a little more and press his lips against Grayson’s and put his tongue in his mouth and kiss him slow and dirty. Mitchell can feel himself getting hard through his pants and the presence of Grayson’s thigh against his dick isn’t helping. If he could just get a little friction, then he’d be fine, then he’d be able to calm himself down.

His hips roll forward ever so slightly and Grayson looks down.

“Wha’s tha’?” Grayson grins, and Mitchell’s heart practically stops.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

“You’re all hot ‘nd bothered, are you?” Grayson rubs his thigh against Mitchell’s erection experimentally, grinning wider as the younger boy shudders and almost turns to jelly under the movement. His fingers find there way to the front of Grayson’s blazer, clutching the fabric in a lackluster attempt to pull him closer.

“You wan’ me to fuck you, is tha’ i’?” Grayson teases and Mitchell can’t _breathe._

His cock twitches through the many layers between them. His face grows hot. He bites his lip and tries to look away but his brain is short-circuiting and he can’t think of any words to push past his lips. And then Grayson is palming Mitchell’s cock through his pants and it feels so good and he _whimpers_ for God’s sake. Oh, this is _so_ not how the conversation was supposed to go.

“Jus’ say the words,” Grayson coos into Mitchell’s ear. He nibbles the lobe. Mitchell sighs and heaves his hips forward in an effort to get more of Grayson’s thigh against his hard dick, but the older boy leans back a little, clucking his teeth in an arrogant, _tsk tsk._

“Beg for i’,” Grayson hisses.

Mitchell has enough self-respect not to give in right away. He stares up at Grayson, doe-eyed, almost desperate, but not lame enough to cross that line. He clamps his mouth shut in case his brain chooses to betray him, as it has tended to do recently. Grayson shrugs as if it’s no big deal, as if he’s fine with getting off with anyone at all and Mitchell is very replaceable. He makes a move towards the door, casually and something erupts in Mitchell’s mind. _He’s leaving._

And Mitchell practically gasps out the phrase, “Please, fuck me,” and suddenly Grayson’s hands are at his belt, undoing it, rolling his eyes with a dramatic, “Well, if you _insist_.” After Mitchell forms the words, he wants it very much, body itching to be touched, craving Grayson inside him.

For a while, Grayson has Mitchell pressed up against the shelf, grinding against Mitchell through his boxers, pinning Mitchell’s hands above his head and grabbing the other boy’s ass through his underwear. It’s rough and uncoordinated, but Mitchell can’t imagine anything else feeling this good. He can feel the outline of Grayson’s dick against his, but it’s not enough, he wants _more_. Grayson’s thrusts grow more sporadic and the shelf is clunking loudly against the wall. Sweat has gathered underneath Mitchell’s dress shirt, making his skin sticky and moist underneath. Grayson’s eyes are so full of lust and determination, lidded and dark as they bare into Mitchell’s, mouth wet and slightly open.

The thoughts in Mitchell’s head are sparse, but he manages to force out a, “Fuck, I need you _inside_ me, Grayson,” and then Grayson is growling low in his throat and shifting to bend Mitchell over the sink in the corner.

Grayson palms Mitchell’s ass through his briefs, spreading his cheeks apart and humming in approval. He doesn’t remove them though. Instead, he ruts against his ass through his underwear, mimicking thrusts and gaining all the pleasure from the movement, all while teasing Mitchell. He pushes back against Grayson’s movements but receives no penetration as a reward. Grayson hisses and groans, thrusting powerfully against Mitchell’s ass once more, rolling his hips slowly and tauntingly. Mitchell can feel every inch of Grayson’s cock against him, but still aches to be filled. He keens and whimpers, reaching a hand down to stroke himself, but Grayson catches him and forces his hands back to gripping the edges of the sink.

“You’ve been very _bad_ ,” Grayson’s voice is hot behind Mitchell’s ear, “Wha’ makes you think I’m gonna reward you?”

“I-I-,” Mitchell gasps. He’s so hard it aches, cock leaking precome through the front of his briefs. And fuck this is so _unfair._ He can’t even _think,_ let alone respond to Grayson’s filthy inquiries.

“C’mon, speak up,” Grayson whispers sticky sweet. He can hear the grin in his voice. He grips Mitchell’s hips tighter, pressing the head of his dick at his entrance through the layer of clothing separating them.

Mitchell is hyper aware of his own breathing, of the warmth of the supply closet like a sauna, of the heat of his orgasm pooling in his stomach.

“I dunno, please, fuck,” Mitchell sighs into his sentence, choking back a moan as Grayson presses harder against his hole.

“You wan’ this?” Grayson coos. His right hand slides down Mitchell’s thigh to give gentle pressure to Mitchell’s cock, stroking it lightly through his briefs. Mitchell’s tingling all over.

He nods, head foggy, unable to repress the high groan that leaves his throat. Grayson chuckles, dipping his thumb into Mitchell’s briefs for a moment to swipe his thumb over the head of his cock before removing his hand altogether.

“Alrigh’,” Grayson sighs cheekily, dragging down the fabric to expose Mitchell’s ass, running his hand along each cheek, squeezing and grabbing them.

He lays a hand on the small of Mitchell’s back, pausing a moment before saying, “Maybe some other time,” spitting in his hand and jerking himself off a few strokes, coming on Mitchell’s ass in hot, wet stripes, breathing hard. And fuck, that’s hot, and Mitchell jerks himself twice before he’s hitting his own release, completely gone, cussing through the intense pleasure.

With languid limbs, Mitchell slowly cleans himself off with a wet paper towel. Grayson’s already pretty much dressed, fixing his tie as Mitchell pulls up his underwear and pants in one motion. He’s embarrassed and has a hard time maintaining eye contact with the older boy who doesn’t seem affected at all by what just happened. Mitchell fumbles with his belt, averting his eyes, but his fingers just don’t want to cooperate, slipping all over the place.

So graciously, Grayson helps him with ease, tightening the leather and slipping the metal latch into the hole. Mitchell just watches him with wide, glowing eyes, fascinated, dumbfounded. And Grayson didn’t have to do that. He could’ve just left Mitchell there to clean up by himself and fuck around with his belt like an idiot, but he didn’t, he waited, and he actually _helped_ Mitchell.

And then maybe Mitchell thinks there might actually be something behind all this, something that isn’t just lust and sex and suck me and I won’t kick your teeth in. But, Mitchell forces himself to ignore that feeling deep in his gut because this is Grayson and Grayson wouldn’t open himself to anybody, especially not someone like Mitchell.

At least that’s what Mitchell tells himself as Grayson exits without another word, without another glance, and Mitchell is left standing alone in the supply closet, sweaty and light-headed and worse off than before.


	8. Behind a Tree

Mitchell can’t think. Well, not _clearly_ , at least.

His daydreams are filled with the cloudy drowsiness of lust, of hands and a mouth of someone in particular, dark eyes and a bite. Friday afternoon and fantasies fill his day with the most alluring, stomach-twisting imaginings. Phys Ed and Mitchell can practically _feel_ Grayson’s body flush against his, index finger running down his spine delicately, teasingly, tracing the skin to his tailbone and dipping back up again, proximity heated and a kiss of dewy sweat, breath hard and persistent by his ear. He’s practically knocked off his feet, literally, during self-defense lessons, but the fluttering, pulsing sensation remains in his bloodstream despite the interruption.

In history, he tempts his own sanity with the thought of sucking Grayson off underneath his desk, long, slow strokes, the heavy, reassuring weight against his tongue, the salty taste against the tip, and a rose blush paints his cheeks before he can hide it from Rem Dogg’s teasing and make some excuse about it.

Fleeting pictures enter his head throughout his classes, a snippet of a hand caressing his erection, a smirking mouth biting his neck, the force of being pressed up against something and palmed ruthlessly; all re welcome and rather slow to be repressed. Mitchell has gone off the deep end with this thing with Grayson.

He doesn’t even _see_ the older boy the whole day, and gradually, it appears as though he might actually be absent from school, though his presence still remains alive and well and sarcastically mocking Mitchell’s attraction mercilessly.

He knows he should be worrying about this, about his sexuality and why he keeps thinking these thoughts of having sex with someone as dangerous as Frank Grayson, a person incredibly capable of breaking the majority of his bones in his body in the most painful way, no doubt. Worry flits across his mind as he entertains the thought that Grayson might be sick at home, that nobody is there to check in on him.

The final bell permeates the atmosphere and shuffling ensues. Rem Dogg is going on about something trivial, his afternoon plans of Xbox and the abandoned pharmacy down the street he’s looking forward to throwing rocks into the windows. Mitchell provides the necessary encouragement that friendship calls him to provide, but doesn’t tease or jab about how boring they sound, as would be his normal route.

Rem Dogg just looks at him, pulling a face and almost demanding, “Wha’s gotten into _you_?” His expression reads concern and Mitchell is slightly touched. They walk and wheel down the hallway together, vaguely in the direction of the dressing rooms, as Mitchell has hurdles practice, annoyingly enough.

“I’ve go’ no idea wha’ yer talkin’ abou’,” Mitchell manages, footsteps pounding with the chase of his heart, reminding himself that _someone_ might actually be at hurdles practice today, even if Mitchell hadn’t seen him during school hours.

“Don’ be such a tosser, you know _exactly_ wha’ I’m talkin’ about. You’ve been ou’ of i’ the whole day. Wha’ could you _possibly_ be thinkin’ abou’?”

Mitchell can taste the homestretch, the doors to the changing rooms just up ahead. He doesn’t plan on talking about this with Rem Dogg; he probably wouldn’t approve. But, his best friend wheels in front of him right before the doors, cutting him off.

“Y’know you can tell me, bruv,” Rem Dogg’s eyes are piercing, determined, but Mitchell overlooks it.

He shrugs.

“Had a shite day is all. Don’ ge’ yer panties in a knickers ‘bout it,” Mitchell forces a cheeky smile and Rem Dogg sort of accepts it. They both know they’re acting, but Rem Dogg lets Mitchell go, past the dresser doors and into the dim lighting of the locker room.

Mitchell changes unnaturally quickly for someone who, previously, delayed hurdles practice as much as possible. He pushes out into the cool afternoon air, cloudy and dim, to find only a few other members of the hurdles team, stretching and chatting and lacing up their sneakers, none of which are Frank Grayson. Mitchell tells himself he’s not upset, that a sinking feeling doesn’t weigh down in his chest like frustration or heart break (oh, for Christ’s sake, he’s no _poof_ ), but he finds it hard to force himself through the warm up and the dynamic jog when he really has no good reason to still be there. His mind flows back to the typical activities imagined throughout the day, dreaming that he’s at the smoking area behind the maths building, that the sunlight is dripping to the untouchable shadows where he lingers, smoking a ciggie, resting the back of his head against the rough cool of the brick, when the sound of footsteps emerges, hitting against the asphalt and crunching rubble. Imaginary Mitchell blinks open his eyes against the sun, exhaling slate smoke through his teeth like a cool kid, and making out the sturdy form of Grayson, sharp gaze on Mitchell, who nods and gives a curt, “boyo,” as a greeting, where Mitchell nods back coolly (though he most certainly would not be able to do that calmly and nonchalantly in real life, but his daydreams often do take his best assets and portray them at all times, no matter the falseness of the situation and Mitchell’s inability to remain normal in the presence of Grayson). Mitchell takes another drag of the ciggie, eyes lingering on Grayson’s face, the exploration in his observation, and the beat he has before Grayson slips forward, crowding into Mitchell’s space and opening Mitchell’s mouth with his tongue, the nicotine smoke enveloping them briefly. Grayson’s hot and weighty against him, hands running against the fabric of his uniform, making out for the sake of making out, for forcing Mitchell undone, pinning him against the brick.

The thoughts rush dangerously through Mitchell’s mind, of losing himself to Frank Grayson, of giving himself over completely, until he finally notices the body of another jogging beside his own. Mitchell glances over, half expecting someone obscure like Joe or Stephen, but finding instead, the glare of none other than Frank Grayson.

His pulse spikes, his attention flares, and he demands to himself that he stop gawking despite the blatant internal conflagration of his senses.

Mitchell’s only jogging, but his lungs are ablaze; barely breathing though his heart _roars_ and his lungs are losing oxygen fast.

Grayson’s eyes seem to recognize something about Mitchell, whether it’s his obvious admiration, shitless fear of him, or some fill-in-the-blank option. Mitchell’s still looking at him, blankly, obviously, fully, with no intention to avert his vision to his shoes like he should be thinking of doing. But, he’s too astonished to even think of letting his eyes go anywhere else.

“What’re _you_ lookin’ a’, jumper?” Grayson bears his incisors like a jungle cat, a sneer of self-acknowledgement, of his own worldly power.

 _“You,”_ Mitchell manages without a beat, the only word his brain can fully process to pass his lips. Fear shoots a beat too late, that he’s not on this level with Grayson yet, that Grayson is as hostile as they come, that Mitchell’s overstepping his boundaries like some love-drunk little fairy.

“Wha’?” Grayson looks a bit taken aback by Mitchell’s directness, a hitch in his jogging pace shows it.

“You-you weren’ ‘ere today—‘least I didn’ see you today—,” Mitchell stammers, but he’s far from embarrassed or frightened. Anger lilts into his voice a tad, like he’s actually sort of angry that Grayson hid the day away from Mitchell while Mitchell was left to swim about in his own sexual frustration.

Unintentionally, he picks up his speed, as though his body wants to effectively evacuate the premises of Grayson, despite all prior infatuation, desperate or not.

It’s a moment or two before Grayson catches up and is alongside Mitchell again, even though Grayson’s one of the fastest kids in school and has no problem keeping up with Mitchell, stuttered movements due to astonishment.

“Wha’? So now I ‘ave to tell you where I am a’ all times? S’tha’ ‘ow this works, sunshine?” Grayson sounds amused, voice biting like a knife, smooth and easy and natural.

Mitchell ignores him. He feels no need to pamper Grayson’s ego, despite the rushing of his veins and his sudden physical interest and stimulation in relation to the other boy’s voice. They jog on.

Mitchell can feel Grayson practically crackling and fizzling by his side, cued to detonate any second now. The entire field seems silent without movement, as though they’re the only two figures dotting the track. Up ahead, there’s a grove of about four or five trees, shady and hidden from view. Mitchell’s pulse picks up. His mind knows what he wants.

“I didn’ know yer such a priss ‘bout hookin’ up. Wouldn’ ‘ave done i’ if I’d known you’d be such a—,” Grayson goes off suddenly as they round near the trees, and before he can finish his sentence, Mitchell steers them off course, bumping their shoulders so they shift down into the grass and about fifteen yards to the third farthest trees, feet thumping loudly against the packed dirt. Mitchell ducks behind the thick trunk of the tree, back pressed to the bark, hidden from the view from the track and the field. Grayson follows too, trailing and looping around the tree to stand before Mitchell, darkly and distantly furious, seemingly unaware of Mitchell’s intentions.

“I’m gone fer one fuckin’ day ‘nd you throw a fit,” Grayson stars, looking lethal, a wolf protecting her pups, like he could pull a switchblade from his pocket and insert it into Mitchell’s abdomen like it’s nothing, like it’s easy.

There’s a good space between them. Mitchell is holding his own, hasn’t done anything drastic yet, but his eyes follow Grayson’s every intake of breath, every dissatisfied twitch of his mouth.

The lust boils up in Mitchell’s chest, the overwhelming sensation to fulfill his daydreams creasing in his subconscious like a dangerous venom.

Good things come to the brave, and Mitchell doesn’t consider him very brave, but he knows what he wants, and in that moment, he opts to take it, breathing out a heavy, _“I want you,”_ before reaching out and grabbing the front of the older boy’s shirt and pulling him to him, locking their mouths with need, with hot, passionate, desire. Grayson seems a more than willing participant, hands finding their place immediately at Mitchell’s ass through his shorts, thumbs spreading the globes apart, dominating his mouth that Mitchell is gasping, barely keeping up with the direction they’re nose-diving into. Panting. Mitchell is panting and keening into the rough hold of Grayson, rolling his hips to meet Grayson’s groin, a tightness in his chest and heat in his cheeks.

He rolls his head to the side in defenseless defeat of the situation, breaking for needed air as Grayson dots his neck with quick, lucid kisses, pressed to the muscles there, shooting out a breathy, wrecked, “Yer fuckin’ _mouth_ ,” tracing the pad of his thumb against the plush pink of Mitchell’s bottom lip, Mitchell’s full attention on Grayson.

Drunk on the sensation, he opens his mouth and sucks diligently on the thumb, swiping his tongue across the soft tip of it, grazing his teeth against the sensitive skin, locking eyes sharply, innocently, with Grayson, whose cheeks reflect the color of a diminishing sunset and takes the action as a gas pedal to remove his thumb with a sultry pop and shove his hand down the from of Mitchell’s briefs without warning and jerk him off. He’s taken a step forward so their foreheads are pressed together, eyes baring into each other’s knees hitting thighs with the thrusting pumps of his wrist, quickly, with intent, that Mitchell is speechless until he remembers that Grayson likes it _loud_ , and is more than willing to push the older boy off the edge.

He gasps as Mitchell twists off at the head, Mitchell arching away from the trunk momentarily from where he had previously been plastered flat against the surface, exposed and vulnerable to Grayson’s pleasure, moaning out a wet, “Ah fuck, more Grayson, _more_.” His name rolls off his tongue too easy, and Grayson’s strokes become irregular for a moment. It’s more than enough encouragement.

“Thought ‘bout you the whole day. Wanted you to fuck me durin’ bio,” Grayson lets out a groan, genuine and unfiltered, shoving his other free hand down his own pants, but not breaking eye contact.

Mitchell continues through his erratic breathing, “almos’ had to toss myself off durin’ lunch ‘cus I couldn’ stop thinkin’ ‘bout suckin’ you off—AH!” Mitchell cries out as Grayson bites down, _hard_ , on the exposed skin just beneath his collarbone. His senses are numb, static and losing control to the constant exposure to sensation. He begs for release, hand clasping Grayson’s shoulder for—what he hopes—is hard enough to bruise, keening out a high and needy, “Grayson, I’m comin’, I’m—,” before shooting his load into Grayson’s palm.

His breathing is evening out. Grayson’s hand is pressed against the bark beside Mitchell’s head as he pumps himself to his own orgasm, moaning through it as it were.

And then it’s still.

Mitchell can hear birds chirping in a nearby tree, and it’s almost humorous.

His body feels languid and tired, boneless and aching for a nap.

He flicks his eyes to watch Grayson, who has his gaze locked on Mitchell wordlessly.

His expression is almost unreadable, not angry nor pleased, something entirely different that might even be categorized as _fond_ if Mitchell was not so hesitant to believe it.

His skin feels overly warm, prickled with beads of sweat, uncomfortable with their proximity now that the fog of lust had somewhat dispersed.

Before his brain can catch up with him, the words leave Mitchell’s mouth, “D’you wanna do this more?” because that’s all _Mitchell_ can think about.

Grayson’s wiping the cum off his hand onto the front of his shorts in a rather gross manner, but he nods, not making eye contact.

“Like…” Mitchell continues albeit a bit awkwardly, “You wanna do this a lot more?” and Grayson looks up this time, eyes solid and gray, and nods again, face of stone.

Mitchell can sense his complexion grow crimson, so he looks away, to the trees and the sky and the breeze cutting through the leaves. The world is somewhat still for a few beats.

“You should grow yer hair out,” Grayson says suddenly, abruptly, running a smooth hand—the clean one—through Mitchell’s buzz cut, the sound soothing.

“Wha’?” Mitchell tries not to stare, but he just… wasn’t expecting that.

“Too short. Not enough to grab onto,” Grayson finishes with a smirk before giving him a semi-hard, playful slap on the cheek.


End file.
